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Monday, 26 January 2015

Movements ...

Maybe you were born for all this
Complexity and twists
Maybe because the turns you take
Fit like jigsaws with the roads mapped
And the echo of your footsteps 
Match the bouncing of sunlight off your hair
And the dust you stir with every move
Is what settles turbulences in some oceans
Maybe you are not just a body
Sent here to breathe out your time
Maybe you're here to take those respirations
And churn them to gasps
Blow them slowly into me.
Because you seem less like flesh 
And more like movements 
Through outlined breezes 
And skyfell radiance.

Stardust ...

She was born from stardust
With bones that shimmered
When everything had stilled out
And blood that flew of precious metals
She was beyond tags
Of price or mortality 
For she was not of this world
She walked of flowerbeds 
And spoke of glitters 
And if one could just see her eyes
They'd know
That her ribcage housed not just organs
But planets and constellations 
And each once was dying to burst out
And that made her glow
Skin and hair all that moulded out of galaxies 
And a smile that was of a trance
She was everything alien to earthly wonders
She was beauty set on stars
She was born from stardust. 

Monday, 12 January 2015

Opposites ...

They were opposites
Fingertips of insecurities 
Blows of repulsions 
Blinks of black hole sucked light
Everything not meant to happen 
Eclipsed beings.
Oh but they were radiant
Sparkling flares
When everything else went numb.

Thursday, 8 January 2015

Her eyes ...

There was something so disastrous about her eyes.
Like brown depths to the core of something so beautifully cracked and open.
Like volcanos that went dormant in some ancient time and never found the courage to erupt again.
Like beaches, long lonely salient beaches that outwardly hold nothing but are lands to which I wander off often.
Like a fire of pure eternal flame that has burned so much to provide so much and still somehow is flickering through it all.
Like a whole different universe of hope and love and possibilities.
Like slow poisonous pills of ecstasy that give you that tripping feeling every time you look into them.
Like books, old books, that hold worlds in pages now tattered and crumbled, worlds and far beyond wonderful things.
Like first cries of babies and last breaths of the freed.
Like an approaching tornado.
So much beauty, it is disastrous. 

Monday, 5 January 2015

Craving ...

I have started to miss it
The magic of flicking fingers
Through me
And the favourite parts being bent
At corners and pressed thin
The days dawn dead
And this unfinished bookish intimacy remains
Ever so alive
Ever so craving. 

Saturday, 3 January 2015

He wrote ...

He wrote in the dark of night
When everything and everyone known
Were cut off oddly
When life stayed alive secretly
And the alive we knew was lost in dreams
Endlessly and soulfully
Without thoughts and voices
He wrote
Words Spilled in black
On sheets like empty bodies
He wrote about her.